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SEVENTY-TWO

NATALIE

They walk out of the dark garden like a team of survivors.

Walter, pushing Rosenberg in front of him, who’s bound again, his mouth taped.

Julien, with Nick’s body thrown across his shoulder.

I stare in awe at how strong Julien is, how different he looks in army boots and tactical pants. Their group shadow, cast by the porch light of the guest house, is dark and gigantic.

I step aside, letting them into the guest house.

This time, Walter sets Rosenberg down in a chair. Julien dumps Nick’s body on the couch.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, staring at Nick, who is motionless.

“I guess his buddy injected him with his own medicine,” Julien says indifferently.

Goosebumps cover my skin. I shouldn’t feel bad. After all, Nick was the one poisoning the girls all this time. He killed at least one person. I would’ve been dead, too, if it weren’t for Julien.

Yet, the thought that he’s poisoned gives me whiplash.

“We should take him to the hospital,” I say, turning to Julien, who’s already at the desk, doing something on the computer screens. “What are you doing?”

“Erasing the passkey security protocol so that the authorities can gain access to the system.”

“What authorities?”

“The ones who will properly handle IxResearch funds and investments.”

“You work for the authorities?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Walter leaves Rosenberg and walks up to me. “You ask too many questions.” He turns to Julien. “I told you she’d be a liability.”

I want to snap back with a clever remark, but I don’t know what their plan is and how I fit in.

“Leave her alone. I’ll deal with her,” Julien says. “I’ve got all the accounts sorted, except for one, his personal money. We are keeping it,” he tells Walter. “The rest will cover everyone, going back to Metrix Technologies.”

“Good. Let’s go. We need to hurry.”

Julien gets up, leaving the computer screens on. “Come with me,” he says to me, motioning toward the door.

“Where?” I ask, uncertain if I should follow. “I’d rather wait for the police.”

Walter snorts. “You kidding me?”

Julien holds the door open for me. “We are done here. You are never coming back here. And that’s not a request.”

“And them?” I nod toward Rosenberg and Nick.

“The ambulance will arrive in time. As well as the police. I’ll explain on the way.”

But something doesn’t sit right with me. If Nick’s biggest asset was the thumb drive with the passkeys, then what did his reference to the treasure in the closet mean?

“What was Nick talking about when he mentioned a treasure?” I ask.

Julien nods to the computer. “This. Natalie, please, we really need to go.”

I shake my head. “No. Something else. When he left me in the closet, he said that I was a dragon guarding a treasure.”

Julien’s eyes narrow, then shift to Walter, who walks toward the back of the living room and opens the closet. He inspects it thoroughly, knocking on the walls, then stomping on the carpeted floor. Julien and I watch when he stomps on one particular spot several times, then whips a folding knife out of his pocket. He cuts into the carpeting, rips part of it open, then stabs into the wooden planks underneath, and one of them comes loose.

“Bingo,” he murmurs and takes out a tin container. Inside it is a flat rectangular box.

“What is it?” I ask.

Walter walks up to us and passes it to Julien. “More evidence of his crimes? I hope it’s something good.”

Julien pockets it and nods to me. “We have to go, Natalie. Now.”

The night is warm, but when we step outside, I shiver. My head spins with the thoughts of how this is all going to play out. I’m in trouble. I’ll have to tell the police about Rich, and Cara, and Nick, and the girl from the party. Oh, what a mess! I hope that I didn’t do anything illegal. Detective Dupin will be shocked.

I follow Julien to the staff entrance of the house while Walter walks behind us, his finger pressed to the earpiece in his ear. “Understood. Yes. We are out… Guest house is the only one, yes. Ambulance, fire trucks, and the police. Yes. Ten minutes… Start the clock.” He calls for Julien. “Boss, it’s ready.”

We approach the staff door, but Julien nods toward the van with his company’s logo on it.

“Get in,” he orders.

“Ready for what?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Natalie, get in. Please .”

Reluctantly, I get in and fasten my seat belt, hoping I won’t end up at a bus stop in the morning, unconscious and with little brain activity.

Julien gets into the driver’s seat, turns on the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. The entrance gate is open—that’s strange. No one greets us, and the security booth is deserted—even stranger. But as we drive away from The Splendors, I finally feel relieved.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I’m taking you home, Natalie. You’re fired.”

I snap to look at Julien and notice a little smile on his lips. Julien is joking. Julien-the-freaking-Warden is joking!

I blurt out a laugh. Then another one. I start laughing, unable to stop, but in seconds, my laughter turns into sobs, and I hide my face in my palms, crying uncontrollably and unable to hide it.

I was so stupid. So, so, so stupid!

The exhaustion, the fear, the stress of the last five days finally bombard me with all their intensity, and I’m crying like a baby into my hands. I cry for Cara, who’s still in the hospital, who never came out of this safely like I did. I cry for Darla, who didn’t make it. For the real Rosenberg, who might’ve been a good person. For a number of other women who fell victim to a charismatic cunning man.

Suddenly, a distant explosion shakes the ground, making the van rattle for a second.

Alarmed, I look out the passenger window and cover my mouth in horror. “Oh my god.”

The night sky is lit up as the large flash of a giant explosion spreads over the landscape.

“Julien, it’s The Splendors!” I turn to look at him, way past caring that tears soak my face.

He seems unfazed, his eyes on the road, his expression back to the so-familiar indifference.

“Must be a gas leak,” he says coldly.

“But the guest house!”

“The guest house and everything inside it is fine.”

Shocked, I lean back in my seat, slowly turning my gaze to the highway in front of me.

The lit-up skyscrapers of Jersey and New York loom ahead like a myriad of star showers against the black sky. They are so alluring with promises of a bright future, though many fall into their trap and fail.

I wipe the tears on my cheeks with the back of my hand.

“Must be a gas leak,” I repeat quietly.